Glass Half Empty
by happycabbage75
Summary: Sam and Dean run across a ghost who just won’t let them have any fun... Season one - Post Shadow.
1. Chapter 1

**Glass Half Empty**

Disclaimer: Not mine. Man, I get tired of saying that. It's depressing.

Summary: Sam and Dean run across a ghost who just won't let them have any fun... Season one - Post _Shadow_.

_The always-encouraging Alec's_Angel asked me to write her a season one story and since she's my constant cheerleader, her wish is my command. I haven't written a season one story since... well, season one and, _dang_, I forgot how much easier the boys' lives were, relatively speaking. It was practically giddy and light-hearted compared to the last couple of years. In any case, I hope y'all enjoy..._

Chapter One

* * *

"Dude, I smell like dead guy."

Sam tried not to grin at his brother. He really did, but it just wasn't possible after he glanced at Dean who was standing in the middle of their motel room looking for all the world like a forlorn three year old who'd just broken his favorite toy.

"That's what happens when you fall in the coffin, Dean."

"I did not _fall_ in the coffin," his brother said indignantly. "I was pushed."

"Yeah. By your feet. Into the hole."

"Mrs. Barton totally pushed me."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean, she's eighty years old. She can barely push her walker and it has wheels."

"She didn't want us burning her husband. She… she surprised me." And now, Dean looked embarrassed.

Sam shrugged. "He read the paper to her every morning. She can't see that well anymore."

"Yeah, he was a sweetheart, a real dedicated husband." Dean snorted. "Didn't stop him from pinching the home health nurse."

Mr. Barton had apparently been a ladies' man in his day and had stuck around to terrorize the poor women who came in to look after his aging wife. Unfortunately, Mrs. Barton had looked the other way in her younger days and was just fine with continuing to do so as long as Hank kept reading to her at the breakfast table.

The nurses had been all for helping them, but Mrs. Barton had blocked them at every turn, including showing up at the cemetery to stop them from finishing the job.

"I need a drink," Dean sighed. "I deserve a drink. A big one. With lots of little friends."

"Shower first," Sam ordered. "In case you haven't noticed, you smell like dead guy."

Dean just glared at him before stomping away toward the bathroom, leaving Sam with nothing to do but wait and listen to the shower run.

Sam sat down on his bed and ran a hand over his face, mindful of the still-healing marks on his cheek from the daevas. He was tired, tired and frustrated. The hunt had put it on the back burner, but he and Dean still needed to talk. They'd found Dad, or rather Dad had found them and Dean had sent him away.

Half of Sam understood. The other half felt like it was the old days with Dad and Dean on one side and him on the other. It was making him _crazy_.

They'd been looking for their father for _months_. Jess was _dead_. Their dad knew what had done it and was on its trail, but one word from Dad and Dean didn't just jump, he asked for a trampoline. One word and Dean had given up his dream of having his whole family back together again, something his brother had told him he wanted only a few hours before their dad had left them, again.

Sam realized his hands were fists at his side and forced himself to relax. He was just so frustrated. He wanted Dean to wake up and smell the crap their dad was shoveling. They had as much right to go after the demon as he did. Sam _needed_ to go after the demon.

"Dude. Unclench." Sam's gaze snapped up to see Dean, pulling on a fresh shirt, standing outside the bathroom watching him. "You look like you're fighting your lunch. Let me know if it's gonna make a reappearance."

"Shut up."

"Great comeback. You want me to go back in the bathroom for a minute while you come up with a better one?" Dean frowned. "Never mind. You look like you might need the bathroom." He pointed toward the door. "I can wait outside if you want."

"Shut up, _jerk_."

Dean grinned. "Better. Weak, but better." He headed toward the door. "Come on. Let's go get a drink. You can mope about the world's injustices later."

* * *

Dean walked into the bar ahead of Sam, already rubbing his hands together happily at the sight of the dark, dingy, dubiously clean interior. It was one of those small town bars that looked friendly enough, just a place for people to stop by on their way home and relax for a bit. Occasionally they wandered into a place where unless you were a local, you weren't welcome. Other times, they managed to find a bar that was meant for one thing and one thing only, sitting quietly and drinking until you couldn't walk anymore.

"What can I get ya?" the bartender asked, eyeing them suspiciously as they wandered closer. He was a big guy in his 50s, with close cropped hair, and day old stubble.

"Two of whatever you've got on tap," Dean said, sliding onto a bar stool.

"Just one. I'll have a coke," Sam corrected quickly. Dean shot him a look and he shrugged. "Somebody's gotta drive."

Dean rolled his eyes, but didn't say anything else. He grabbed the mug the bartender brought and downed it almost before the guy had come back with Sam's coke.

"Geez, Dean. Slow down," Sam muttered just loud enough for his brother to hear. "It's not like it's the first time you've fallen in a coffin."

"Dude, how many times do I have to tell you I was pushed?"

Sam raised an eyebrow. "So saying you were taken out by an eighty year old woman is better than saying you tripped?"

Dean cocked his head to one side. "When you say it that way…"

"You suck either way, so whichever story you wanna go with, I'll stick to it."

"Thanks for the support." Dean waved for the bartender to bring him another.

"Maybe it was a little of both," Sam said, all mock seriousness. "Did you trip over her walker or something?"

"Sam, I will beat you to death with my mug if you don't shut up," Dean growled.

"Do me a favor and leave off the face, will you? These still itch." Sam gestured vaguely to the scratches on his cheek and Dean just grunted, a hand unconsciously moving toward the still livid injuries to his own face. Now that he thought of it, the same type of injuries might account for some of Dean's annoyance. The daevas had carved a nasty set of furrows down Dean's chest. The fall into the grave wouldn't have done them any favors.

The bartender set a second beer in front of Dean. "You might want to take this one a little slower, buddy. We got a two drink limit."

"Seriously?" Sam and Dean asked in unison.

"Not you, kid," the bartender said to Sam. "You can have all the coke you want."

"What kind of bar has a two drink limit?" Dean asked, a deep line appearing between his brows. "Most places that's a minimum."

The bartender snorted. "Well, most places don't have a bouncer like we do."

Dean turned to glance across the small room where only a couple of other patrons sat sipping at their drinks. Sam did the same and saw no sign of any sort of bouncer.

"Unless you've got Patrick Swayze in the back, I don't think your security is gonna be a problem. Trust me, I can hold my liquor."

The man behind the bar just shrugged. "That's the rules. It keeps everything nice and calm in here and that's what I like. Got it? You want more than that," he pointed toward the door, "there's a drugstore still open down the street. Get yourself something and take it home."

The guy walked to the other end of the bar shaking his head. Dean just turned and looked at Sam. "Do I have a sign that says _kick me_ on my back?"

"No."

"So I'm just naturally talented when it comes to getting crapped on?"

"Looks like," Sam said, trying for a smile, although he was still watching the bartender. What kind of bar didn't like for its patrons to drink?

Dean stood abruptly, his second beer still full. He pulled some cash out of his wallet and threw it on the bar. "Come on. I didn't want to get drunk before, but the idea's growing on me."

As soon as the words left his mouth, they heard a crash behind them. Sam and Dean both turned in time to see a bottle of liquor fly from the rack behind the bartender and shatter across the bar in a shower of glass and booze.

The bartender looked straight at Sam and Dean, eyes wide. "Run!"

Sam turned to do just that, but it was already too late. He glanced at his brother just in time to see his mug of beer strike him just above the temple, as if an invisible hand had grabbed the glass and purposely brought it down. Dean crumbled to the floor.

The room was deafeningly silent around them. No one moved as Sam knelt beside him. "Dean?" he demanded anxiously.

Dean's eyelids fluttered. "I 'as wrong."

"What?"

"Sign… doesn't say _kick me_," he slurred. "Says _hit me_."

"Dean, are you ok?"

"M'fine," he answered weakly, his eyes rolling up right before he lost his battle with consciousness.

* * *

_A little something to start us off. More soon..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Glass Half Empty**

Summary: Sam and Dean run across a ghost who just won't let them have any fun... Season one - Post _Shadow_.

_So... let's see if we can't get the boys into some more trouble..._

Chapter Two

* * *

Dean hated Kansas. He hated looking at Kansas, hated being in Kansas, even hated driving _through_ Kansas. Amber waves of grain, his ass.

He never said anything to Sam about it, but if there was a way to drive to where they were going without going through Kansas then so much the better. If there was no way to get around it, then the best he could do was drive along the southern edge of the state, as far from Lawrence as he could get.

The job with the Nurse-Pincher had actually been in northern Oklahoma but there hadn't been a motel for miles and miles, not even the little crappy kind, which was how he and Sam had ended up across the state line in Medicine Lodge. Talk about a one horse town. And its one watering hole had just tried to bash his skull in.

"Sam?" Dean tried to blink his eyes open, and immediately closed them again at the painfully bright overhead lights. He was pretty sure the bar had been a dark, dingy place before, but at the moment it felt like he was trying to look into direct sunlight.

"Dean, are you all right?"

Dean dared try to open his eyes again, and saw Sam's worried face swim into view. "Wha' happened?"

Dean heard another crash and felt bits of glass pelt his outstretched legs.

"Get down!" he heard the bartender bark. Sam immediately leaned over Dean, pressing his face into Dean's chest and spreading his jacket wide like a shield over Dean's face and upper body. He heard whatever it was fly past overhead and shatter against the table beyond.

"You ok?" Sam murmured into Dean's shirt.

"You mean other than the fact that my nose is in your armpit right now?"

Sam rose slightly and dared a look over his shoulder toward the bar. Once Sam lowered the jacket, Dean saw the bartender barreling toward them. "Get him up!" the man ordered.

"What?"

"I warned you!" The bartender stopped beside Dean and grabbed him around one arm. With no other choice but to help, Sam grabbed the other and between the two of them, they hauled Dean up. Dean's head protested and he was about two seconds from barfing when he realized the jerk hadn't let go of his arm and was pulling him toward the door.

Unfortunately, while the guy might want Dean to head for the door, Dean's legs weren't really with the program and he pitched forward. Sam caught him before he hit the floor, and hurriedly pulled one of Dean's arms across his shoulders.

The bartender swore and lunged away from them. It was their only warning, and Sam staggered forward under the weight of holding them both upright as a pair of bottles caught them with deadly accuracy, one landing against Dean's back, the other shattering against his elbow on the arm across Sam's shoulders, catching Sam's neck and head in the bargain.

"Get him out of here!" the bartender bellowed, accompanied by a chorus of the other remaining patrons.

Dean fought to keep his legs under him as Sam pulled him toward the door. One of the other customers ran around them and held the door open. "Hurry, you morons, or she'll kill you!"

Sam redoubled his efforts. Dean knew because his legs gave up trying to keep up and Sam practically dragged him out the door. He didn't stop until he was beside the car and Sam leaned Dean against the passenger door.

The bartender gave a parting shot of, "Don't come back here!" and then slammed the door behind him.

Dean stood very still, breathing heavily, and stared at the closed bar entrance. The neon sign in the window was too bright for him to look at so he closed his eyes. He felt the car shift slightly as Sam leaned against it beside him.

"So that was weird, right?" Dean said, his voice ragged, trying to decide whether or not he really was going to throw up. His head hurt so badly he was afraid the blow had actually cracked his skull. It wouldn't be the first time something like that had happened. Dean raised a hand to his temple just to make sure everything was where it was supposed to be, despite his eye feeling like it was going to explode.

"Definitely."

"What do we do about it?" Dean asked. He opened his eyes and tried to turn his head toward Sam and spots appeared in his vision.

"Whoa." He felt Sam's hands settle on his arms, keeping him upright against the car. "Let's get you sitting down first."

"Don't wanna get in the car," Dean answered petulantly. "Wanna go kick... whoever clocked me with a beer mug."

"Dude, we gotta get you cleaned up first. You smell like a brewery."

Dean blinked at that. "I smell again? I just got rid of the dead guy stink!"

"That was before you had a beer poured over your head."

"Wasn't poured," Dean muttered. They were back where they were before. Dean hadn't tripped. He'd been pushed into that grave. And he'd been clocked by a beer, not had it thrown in his face.

Sam opened the door for him and Dean tumbled inside, spots appearing in his vision again, along with a definite twinge where the bottle had hit his back. He turned and saw Sam standing outside the driver's side door. His brother took off his wet jacket, threw it in the back and then leaned over, half upside down, and began fiddling with his hair trying to shake the glass out of it. Dean smirked. That's what happened when you had girl hair.

Sam finally got into the driver's seat, and although Dean would never admit it, he was struck once again by how much better life was with a wingman. After Sam left, their dad had closed down even more. He hadn't been a friend or even a partner. He'd been the boss, plain and simple. Dean could appreciate the chain of command. It kept things nice and orderly in a world where almost nothing was orderly. That said, however, it was good to have someone who would work _beside_ him, not leave him tagging along behind, or just left behind.

_Dean, you're gonna have to let me go my own way._

"Dean, you all right?"

"Hmm?" He opened his eyes to see that they were parked in front of a 24 hour pharmacy. "Why we here?"

"Because we used almost everything in the first aid kit on the last hunt," Sam explained.

"Right." Daevas. Tried to rip their faces off, along with any other appendages they could sink their claws into. Sent their dad running for cover. Away from them. Dean told him to go.

"Dean?"

"M'fine," Dean said, able to see the worried frown on his brother's face, despite not bothering to look at him.

"Just... stay here. I'll be back in a minute."

Dean waved a hand dismissively, and after another second of hesitation Sam got out of the car. Dean opened one eye long enough to look at his watch and note the time. He then closed his eyes again and let his thoughts drift.

He knew Sam was pissed at him and had been ever since Dean told him it was the right thing for their dad to leave. Frankly, Sam being pissed was nothing new. Since they hit puberty, Dean had been hungry and Sam had been pissed, pissed at the monsters, pissed at his family, pissed at the world in general that had somehow conspired to make his life miserable and ruin what bits of normalcy he could string together.

Maybe this time, Dean didn't even think Sam was wrong. Their dad leaving again... It just didn't sit right. He'd been thinking and rethinking it, and maybe, just maybe, this one time, Dad was full of crap. Dean had spent his entire life in harm's way, always with his dad egging him on, demanding that he get in and get his hands dirty, and _now_ he decides it's too dangerous?

Dean sighed. He just didn't know anymore.

For just a few minutes, a few seconds really, he hadn't felt totally lost. His father had been there with them. His general had been back on the field of battle to take command instead of sending vague orders from somewhere else. Sam was already planning to ditch him again, but Dad was there. For a second, Dean hadn't felt the burden of being the oldest. He hadn't had to be the strong one, or the one who made the tough calls.

And then Dad was gone. He'd asked Dean to let him go again. Worse still, he'd looked to Dean to convince Sam that his leaving was for the best.

_You're gonna have to let me go my own way._

Dean was getting kind of tired of everybody telling him they wanted to go their own way, and telling him he had to suck it up and accept it. It was true that sometimes a guy had to man-up and do what was better for somebody else, but Dean was getting kind of tired of it always being him.

Dean sighed and ran a hand over his face, mindful of the new bruising near his temple to match his claw marks. He was still feeling nauseous, and his head was killing him. If Sam didn't hurry, he was going to hurl in the car and wouldn't that be the end to a perfect day. He'd already been face to face with the freshly rotting corpse of Hank "Mr.-McFeely" Barton and if that didn't give a person a moment of clarity about how much their job sucked he didn't know what did.

Dean looked at his watch again and frowned. How long did it take to pick up some aspirin and a few bandages? He looked around the parking lot and saw that a couple of other vehicles had pulled in, but it dawned on him that he hadn't actually seen anyone come out of the drugstore.

Some people would just wait and say they were being paranoid, but Dean knew he'd rather live with Sam making fun of him than leave his brother to face something alone if there was a problem. He pulled out the keys Sam had left in the ignition and got out of the car. Once he was on his feet, he took the extra seconds necessary to make sure he didn't fall flat on his face, then headed for the front door, sliding a hand into the pocket of his jacket and thumbing off the safety on his gun. No sense in going in unprepared.

The doors opened automatically and Dean walked in warily. There was no one at the check-out desk, nor did he see any other customers.

"Sam?" he called loudly enough to be heard throughout the store, his headache forgotten. "You in here?" If people thought he was nuts, or causing a scene then so be it.

"We're back here!" he heard Sam shout.

"Back where?" Dean pulled the gun out of his pocket and held it down next to his leg.

"Far side of the store in the back!"

"Are you hurt?" There was a second's pause, long enough for Dean's heart to stutter in sudden panic. "Sammy?"

"We're ok. Just need some help back here." There was another pause, then, "You're gonna need salt, Dean."

"Salt?" Dean heard a strident, high-pitched male voice say. "Are you nuts? We need the friggin' cops!"

"Shut up, you moron!" a female voice snapped. "You think the cops can do anything about this?"

Great. Civilians. Freaked civilians.

Dean stopped for about a second before turning back around and heading to the car. He quickly found his favorite sawed-off shotgun safely tucked in a duffel in the trunk. He pulled Marigold out, grabbed a handful of salt shells for her, shoved them in his pocket and ran back to the entrance, annoyed at having to wait the extra seconds for the motion detector to open the sliding door for him.

Dean hurriedly moved down the aisles, stopping just long enough to grab several canisters of salt off a shelf. He pulled his pocketknife out as he walked and popped the top off the first one. As he reached the end of the aisle, he slowed and warily peered around the end-cap. He didn't see anything out of the ordinary, so he stepped out.

Sam was in the back corner, kneeling beside a young woman who was sitting with her knees pulled up close her chin. Another man, who might as well have had "slacker" tattoed on his forehead, was crouched on the other side of her, his eyes wide and panicked.

"Sammy?"

His brother turned at the sound of his voice and quickly stood. Dean could see he was bleeding heavily from some sort of head wound and he had several nicks on his arms and hands, although Dean wasn't sure if they were fresh or if they were from the bar earlier.

"Dean," Sam said, visibly relieved. He took a step toward Dean and almost instantly a glass bottle flew from over the aisle divider and shattered at his feet. Sam quickly retreated and held out a hand to keep Dean back.

"You ok?" Dean asked.

Sam brought a hand up to his head and very gingerly ran his fingers into his hair. "Whatever this is, it threw a bunch of bottles at us until we were boxed in back here. The floor was wet and I slipped and fell in some of the glass." He held up his hands to show all of the cuts, answering Dean's question about whether they were new.

"Why didn't you call?"

"Left my phone in my jacket," Sam explained, obviously annoyed at himself.

"Who cares?" the man behind Sam shouted. "How are we gonna get out of here?"

"Dave, I already asked you to be quiet," Sam said, clearly frustrated. "We'll get out of here as soon as we figure something out, ok?"

"Screw that, man! I gotta get outta here!" The man stood and started forward, prompting another bottle to fly off a shelf several aisles away and crash into the wall inches from his head, showering him in booze and glass.

"You wanna get out of this, you're gonna shut your mouth and sit your butt back down," Dean thundered. "You got me, Dave?"

The man looked at Dean as if he hadn't actually seen him before, but he obeyed, sinking back to the floor. "This sucks," Dean heard him mutter. "This _sucks_. Beer run, man. Five minutes. We'll have the burgers ready when you get back."

Dean couldn't help a smirk. Some people just didn't deal well in crisis situations. The woman was headed toward catatonic. She was already doing the weird, I'm-about-to-lose-it, rocking thing. Dave was apparently the freak-out-and-run-right-in-front-of-oncoming-traffic kind.

Dean quickly threw a canister of salt to Sam and between them they hurriedly made a solid but very soggy arc of salt around themselves and the others.

"You see anything?" he asked Sam.

"Maybe a flicker?" His brother frowned. "Nothing recognizable."

"Super." Dean warily looked around, keeping Marigold handy. He could see all of the broken bottles, and he realized something as the smell suddenly struck him. "This thing only throwing liquor bottles at you?"

"Yeah."

"What does that even mean? Eliot Ness followed us to the Walgreens?" Dean demanded, annoyed even more at the sight of his brother leaning on one of the shelves, closing his eyes for a second. "Hey. You sure you're ok?"

Sam opened his eyes. "You're one to talk." His eyes tracked to Dean's left. Dean followed his gaze and realized he had unknowingly been using an elbow propped on an end-cap to keep himself upright.

"So what do we do?"

"We're in a drugstore. We can have a first aid party." Dean smiled helpfully.

"Can't leave our little corner, remember?"

"Well, we got plenty of booze. Feel like a party, party?"

The bottle flew over the shelves like a guided missile. That was one problem with salt lines. They kept the ghosts out, but it didn't do anything about the projectiles. Dean had a particularly interesting scar from years ago when a ghost had lobbed a winged dragon statue at him. That had driven the lesson home really fast, and it came right back at the sight of the bottle headed straight at his nose. Dean tried to duck, but it still clipped his shoulder and broke apart.

"Son of a-" His chest felt like it was on fire. The alcohol on his still relatively fresh wounds from the daevas was like someone had taken a torch to him.

It was also enough to make Dave bolt. He ran for the front of the store. A wave of bottles followed in his wake. Dean ran after Dave while Sam got the woman on her feet.

Dave had almost reached the front of the store when a six-pack caught him in the back of the head. He went down hard and slid into one of the displays. Potato chips and beef jerky fell around him in a pile. Sam and the woman ran past him, while Dean leaned down and grabbed the back of Dave's shirt, grunting as another bottle hit him in the lower back before falling to the ground and shattering.

Dean began to pull the man up, his back sending darts of pain in all directions, but went very still when he heard the PA system crackle to life. It let out a screeching wail before dying away again.

"_You must learn_."

It was a female voice, although it was hard to tell past the static. "Lady, I sucked at school." Dean leaned over further, ignoring the pounding in his head as he bent to pick up the still-unconscious Dave. He hefted the man's dead weight despite the pull on the still healing wounds to his chest. Dean hadn't bothered to tell Sam, but he'd already had to patch himself up once tonight after digging and then being pushed into the grave.

"_It will kill you. It will follow you and drag you down with it. It will bring nothing but ruin and death."_

A can of something smacked him right in the side of the head, followed by a second mashing his ear, and Dean stumbled, almost dropping Dave. His ear was shrieking and Dean distantly noted how much he hated it when something hit one of his ears. It hurt more than a lot of things for some reason.

Of course, he also hated it when something hit his nose, because that hurt like a bitch, and it was about to happen, because he was seeing stars and his head was killing him, and Dave's body was dragging him down and he was definitely going to face plant right in front of the register.

"Dean!" Through a haze of darkness, he saw Sam lunge back through the doorway. He caught him right before he hit the floor face first and Dean took a bit of pleasure in knowing that Dave was not so lucky. The bastard had jumped cover and managed to get Dean clocked again. He so deserved a broken nose.

Sam dragged Dean, who just managed to grab Marigold, through the door and dumped him unceremoniously on the curb. Sam then rushed back in and grabbed Dave and pulled him to safety as well.

Dean groaned and rolled onto his side before pushing himself to a sitting position. "Was there a clerk in there somewhere?"

"Aisle 4," Sam answered.

"We need to go back in for 'em?"

"She's fine. She just freaked when the ambush started and kind of sat down and refused to move."

"Helpful," Dean commented sourly. He pushed himself to his feet using the bumper of the nearest car before leaning back against it to stay upright. "Where'd the girl go? The other one?"

"Ran off as soon as we were out the door. She'll call the cops. We should get out of here."

Dean just nodded, too tired and sore to bother with anything else. He pulled the keys from his pocket. "Come on."

"Where to?"

"Back to the bar," Dean growled. A bottle shattered against the large plate glass window right in front of them, cracking the window and sending it crashing toward them. They both hustled to get away from the shower of glass, Sam stopping just long enough to pull Dave farther from the line of fire.

"We gotta talk to that bartender. _Now_."

* * *

_More soon... Might not be tomorrow since it's show day._


	3. Chapter 3

**Glass Half Empty**

Summary: Sam and Dean run across a ghost who just won't let them have any fun... Season one - Post _Shadow_.

_Thank you very much for the kind reviews. Now, let's see if we can't get a few answers for the boys today..._

Chapter Three

* * *

Sam drove back toward the bar. Dean pulled a stack of napkins out of the glove box and handed them to him.

"Put those on your head," Dean said.

Sam took them and pressed them to the gash just inside his hairline. There was no telling how long the napkins had been in the glove box, so they weren't exactly sanitary, but it was the best they could do until they got back to the room. Head wounds were a mess and he could already feel the blood soaking through the stack.

"You know what set the ghost off in the drugstore?" Dean asked.

"Not sure. I'd already picked up the first aid stuff, and I decided to get you something to drink since our night was a bust." Sam should have known even thinking like that would get them in trouble, but he'd assumed the problem would be limited to the bar. That was what happened when you assumed. You ended up face down in broken glass and backed into a corner with a panicked, "This-can't-be-happening-I'm-just-on-a-beer-run," Dave because the stupid ghost wasn't bound to one place. "I started for the liquor aisle, and everything went crazy."

"Great," Dean moaned. "It is the ghost of Eliot Ness. He's breaking up bars, and if we're not careful, he's gonna come after us for tax evasion next."

"Hey, Mr. Capone? You wouldn't know a tax form if you sat on one," Sam said in amusement. Sam hadn't either until he'd found a job to supplement his scholarship money. Jess hadn't understood the guilty pleasure he'd taken in filling out his tax paperwork. He'd firmly put himself on the grid, proudly paid his money to Uncle Sam like a good, normal, supernaturally-oblivious, non-hunting citizen.

"_Untouchables_," Dean said, unaware of Sam's inner monologue. "Dude, that was an awesome movie." Dean leaned back in the seat, and Sam tried to ignore that his brother's speech was slightly slurred. He'd seen the beer can clip Dean right before he'd dropped Dave and gone down again. Dean hissed and shifted slightly so that his back wasn't flat against the seat. "Stupid ghost. Back's killing me."

"You ok?"

Dean made a show of scowling. "The ghost... I want it dead. I want its family dead. I want its house burned to the ground!" he said in his best De Niro.

Sam couldn't help a smile. "Hate to tell you this, but it's a ghost, man. It's already dead, and its family probably is, too. I'll see what I can do about the house."

"That's my boy." Sam saw him grimace and shift again trying to get comfortable. "My very own Frank Nitti. Don't go throwin' anybody off a building or anything." A definite smirk appeared. "Oh, wait. You did."

Sam shot a glare toward his brother. They were working under a strict _No Meg_ policy, or at least he was. Sam didn't want to think about how easily he'd been taken in. He'd been a few missed phone calls away from getting on a bus with the woman. When she showed up again, he'd figured out she was up to no good, but not soon enough to keep them from nearly getting killed.

The bar appeared ahead and Sam slowed the car. "We're here."

"We can't go in there again. Pull around back. We're gonna have to wait for the bartender to close up."

Sam nodded his agreement. He pulled around the building and parked beside the only other car. Maneuvering the Impala one-handed wasn't the easiest thing to do, but he still managed, using the other to keep pressure on the gash on his head. Dean, he noted, had found another paper napkin and was using it to dab at his own nicks and cuts. They just hadn't been able to escape that much flying glass, especially when it was purposely flying _at_ them.

"What time do you guess they close?"

"I dunno," Dean muttered. "Nine? Ten, maybe. If nobody can drink, there's not a whole lot of point in staying open 'til three in the morning."

As if asking had produced him, the back door of the bar opened, and the man who'd thrown them out earlier appeared carrying a large garbage bag. He headed toward a dumpster, but at the sight of their car, he stopped dead. "I thought I told you two not to come back here!" he shouted, throwing down the garbage bag and heading for them.

When Dean didn't move, Sam sighed. "You gonna get out of the car?"

"Your head hurt as bad as mine?" Dean asked gruffly, still not moving.

"Yup. Still gonna have to get out."

"Well, crap." Dean threw open the door and stepped out, keeping a hand on the car to steady himself. Sam did the same, although he looked a whole lot more idiotic since he still had one hand and a pile of napkins on his head.

"Dude, just calm down. We need you to answer a couple of questions," Dean tried.

"And I need you to get away from my bar." He pointed a finger at them, stabbing at them along with his words. "It's hard enough keeping the place running in this town without strangers coming in causing problems."

"Can't imagine why, what with the homicidal bouncer and all," Dean growled.

"We can help you," Sam cut in before his brother could say anything else.

The bartender narrowed his eyes, but warily stepped closer. "How's that?"

"You tell us a little about your problem, maybe we can fix it for you."

The man snorted and shook his head. "Nobody can fix this problem," he scoffed. "Especially not two morons like you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean demanded.

"This is what we do," Sam said again, trying to keep his voice even, yet earnest. "We can help."

The bartender opened his mouth again, but Dean cut him off. "You've got a ghost, right? Well, we do ghosts. Well, we don't _do_ ghosts. We lay them to rest. We hunt them. We..." He trailed off and Sam frowned worriedly at Dean's concussed rambling. "Whatever. Point is, we can help you," Dean finished.

"You're crazy," the barkeep said wide-eyed.

Dean turned toward Sam, his lips pursed. "Why do they always say that? Even when they've been living with a ghost for years, they still say that."

"Dean."

"Sorry." Dean shook his head, and from the looks of it, did himself no favors. His grip on the car tightened, and he finally broke down and just leaned against it.

"Why don't you tell us who your ghost is," Sam suggested. "If we're crazy, no harm done. If we're not, maybe we help you out."

The bartender hesitated, just looking from one of them to the other. "It's Carry."

Dean frowned. "Who?"

"This is Medicine Lodge. We've only got one Carry."

"Carry Nation?" Sam asked.

"Yeah." The man shrugged.

"Carry Nation," Sam said again. "_The_ Carry Nation."

The barkeep just nodded again, his expression saying, "_Duh_."

"Somebody wanna fill in the historically challenged?" Dean said, clearly frustrated.

"She was a famous prohibitionist," Sam said.

"She was a nutball," the bartender corrected. "Anybody comes in and even mentions getting sauced, she goes crazy. It took me awhile, but I finally figured out that as long as everybody kept their mouth shut and nobody had more than a couple, that she left us alone."

"The house she lived in is just down the road." Sam pointed vaguely. "I saw the sign when we were coming into town. They turned it into a museum."

"Don't suppose you know where she'd buried?" Dean asked resignedly, making Sam shoot him another worried glance.

"What?" Now the bartender was backing away from them, back toward the door to the bar.

"Nothin'." Dean was silent for a second and then grunted, as if coming to a decision. "You give us a day or two, and then you can have a grand re-opening party, kegs, frat boys, the works."

The bartender quit backing up. He looked from one of them to the other, finally settling on Sam. "Is he serious?"

"Yes."

"I never joke about bars," Dean murmured. "Come on, Sam. Gotta get you patched up."

Sam turned in time to see Dean fold himself back inside the car. He might be using Sam's head wound as an excuse, but Dean was close to falling down himself. He'd taken too many knocks in too short a time.

"We'll let you know when it's safe," Sam told the bartender. He didn't wait for a response, just sat back down in the car, annoyed at the sticky mess that was gluing his hair and his shirt to his skin. He was probably going to have to run warm water over the napkins he still had pressed to his head to pry them loose.

Sam pulled out of the bar, once again steering one handed and drove the few blocks to their motel. It was a complete dump, maybe even worse than their usual choice of dive, but it was the only thing for miles and miles on this side of the state line or in Oklahoma. He knew Dean hated being in Kansas, but there hadn't been any other options except for driving for another hour with the stink of corpse burrowing into the car's upholstery to stay.

Sam turned into the parking lot and stopped in front of their room. "Dean," he said lowly.

His tone immediately got his brother's attention, and he straightened in his seat. "What?"

"Door." It was standing slightly ajar, although there were no lights on inside.

Dean huffed in annoyance and immediately pulled his gun out from beneath his jacket. "That sign on my back? I think it just says, _Don't bother. The universe is already against him._"

Sam raised an eyebrow. "The universe broke into our room?"

"Maybe."

Dean got out of the car and Sam followed after reaching into the glove compartment for a gun. He tried to pull the napkins away from his scalp and grimaced at the tugging sensation as he removed them. He had no doubt he was bleeding again, but they were going to have to take care of whatever this was first.

Sam let Dean take the lead as he moved up to the door on the side without the window. Dean nudged the door open with his foot, but once again stayed to the side out of the line of fire. When nothing happened, he carefully leaned across and flipped the switch for the interior light.

Dean took one look inside and dropped his gun to his side, letting Sam know the coast was clear. Dean walked in and he followed, taking in the wreck that used to be their room. There were clothes strewn everywhere. The bedding had all been pulled off and torn to shreds. The TV, clock, coffeemaker and lamps were all broken to pieces. It was only by chance that the one light attached to the switch still worked. It was a twisted mess of metal and broken glass on the floor. Most noticeable, however, was the fact that every single piece of furniture had been systematically hacked to pieces.

"Is it just me or does it look like someone took an ax to the place?"

Sam picked up a washcloth that had been tossed on top of the destroyed TV and stuck it against his head. He then sat down heavily on the closest mattress despite all of its stuffing sticking out in odd directions.

"Dude, your mattress looks like Wilson."

"What?"

"Wilson? Tom Hanks? _Castaway_?" He held his hands above his head with fingers sticking straight up. "You know? Wilson? With the..." He waggled his fingers like it was long hair sticking up.

Sam knew what his brother was talking about, but he wasn't amused and he wasn't in the mood, so he just continued to stare at him.

"Ooookay," Dean said, drawing the word out. "Never mind." He sat on the other bed and leaned forward holding his head in his hands, like he was too tired to hold it up otherwise, and Sam was almost sorry he hadn't played along with his brother's attempt at levity. Finally, Dean sighed and stood. "Lemme go see what I can scrounge from what's left in the first aid kit."

"Then what?" Sam asked, knowing he sounded barely a step above morose.

"Then we figure out why Ms. Party Pooper beat us back to our room and we take care of business."

* * *

_More soon..._


	4. Chapter 4

**Glass Half Empty**

Summary: Sam and Dean run across a ghost who just won't let them have any fun... Season one - Post _Shadow_.

_Down to business today... a little info on Carry Nation._

Chapter Four

* * *

Dean sat down at the table across from Sam. He'd had to go to the clerk and pay for a second room. The guy'd looked at him funny, but Dean had stared at him and refused to explain until the guy had just given him the key. It was only by sheer luck that they were in the world's dumpiest motel that no one had called the cops when the ghost tore their room apart.

After that he'd had to pay a snot-nosed fifteen year old kid to go into a convenience store for him and buy out the first aid section. Until they figured out what to do with Ms. I'm-a-ginormous-buzzkill, he couldn't go anywhere with booze in stock. In any case, the first aid kit was still short of the finer points of field med, but at least Sam was patched up as well as he could manage, which was to say, at least his brother wasn't wearing a napkin beanie anymore. Dean really should have taken a picture. He'd chalk it up to his own concussion that he hadn't.

Sam looked up from his laptop suspiciously. "What are you smilin' at?"

"Nothin'." Dean cleared his throat. "So what do you see on our favorite teetotaler?

"We may have found the perfect woman for you," Sam said, trying not to let the corners of his mouth turn up in a grin. "She'd whip you right into shape."

"I think I could take her," Dean said with a confident nod.

Sam lost his battle not to grin. "It says here Carry Nation was six feet tall and 'strapping'."

"And what am I?" Dean said, annoyed that he'd managed to run into an Amazon to match his Sasquatch.

"You're the guy she took down with his own beer mug," Sam said, all innocence.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "I wasn't the one she cornered in the feminine hygiene section of Walgreens."

"Fine, fine." Sam held up his hands in mock-surrender. "Anyway... Carry was married to this guy who was a raging alcoholic and he died not long after they were married leaving her destitute. Then in the late 1870s, she married another guy named David Nation and they moved here to Medicine Lodge. Get this, her husband was a preacher." Sam started grinning again as he read. "She insisted on writing his sermons for him, and always sat on the front pew. She would correct him _loudly_ during his sermons if she didn't like his delivery. She told him when to raise or lower his voice, which direction to face at any given moment, when to clear his throat, clutch his lapel, or stroke his beard. When she decided he was done, she would go up to the pulpit, close his Bible, escort him down and say, 'That will be all for today, David'."

"Holy crap," Dean said, stunned. "And I thought Dad was bossy."

Sam looked up at him and the amusement had fled from his face. Dean mentally cursed himself for bringing up their father. Sam was pissed, and Dean was confused, and their dad was still _gone_. It was a big Dad-shaped elephant that was following them everywhere, and there just wasn't a good way to deal with it.

Dean cleared his throat. "So her first husband was a drunk, and her second husband needed to grow a pair. Why's she still hanging around?"

Sam allowed the moment to pass and returned to his reading. "So she was a big Temperance Union leader. At the time, Kansas had a prohibition law on the books, but no one paid any attention to it. Starting in Medicine Lodge she did whatever she could to shut down the saloons. She started off throwing rocks and bricks. She rounded up supporters in other towns to help with her crusade, and the movement sort of grew from there. Once she really got going she got a hatchet and started going into bars and breaking the places up herself."

"Explains why our room looks like a crazy ax murderer got loose in it."

"She broke up saloons all over Kansas. The hatchet turned into kind of her symbol and, after she ditched David to continue with her 'divine calling' to stamp out alcohol, tobacco, loose women, the Masonic Lodge, etc, she made money by selling these little lapel pins that were miniature hatchets. She went all over the country giving speeches and had a huge following."

"No one appreciates a good loose woman. They're not as easy to find as you might think."

"Glad you picked out the relevant info, Dean." Sam shook his head. "So we know she had violent tendencies even when she was alive. She got arrested all the time for breaking up saloons, disorderly conduct, vandalism, but the money from the pins or from her fellow Temperance ladies paid the fines."

"I bet that bunch was a _blast_ at parties."

"Actually, she was known to have quite a quirky sense of humor."

"Quirky... Is that code for non-existent?"

Sam huffed out a laugh. "Maybe. Her husband must've thought so anyway. He divorced her on grounds of abandonment since she was off busting up saloons and making speeches all the time."

"Finally got the nerve to do it, huh?" Dean snorted. "Bet he did it when she was on the other side of the country so he'd have time to hide." He set a hand over his chest gauging how well his stitches were holding together. He knew they probably weren't in the best of shape. They'd both cleaned up a bit and changed clothes, but he was going to have to wait until Sam fell asleep before he could quietly take care of it. "You said her house was right down the road?"

"Yeah. They must have something in the house that's keeping her around, because she's not buried here. Even if we went and dug up her body, she'd probably still stick around. If the house doesn't work though..." Sam shot him an uneasy look that made Dean frown.

"What?"

"She, uhh... She's buried outside Leavenworth, on the Missouri side."

Dean felt his stomach try to leave the room without him. Fastest way took them through Lawrence. They could easily go around, but... Crap. Too close to ground zero. "Well, we'll see what's keeping her here first," he said, pleased that he at least sounded composed. He stood, unable to sit still at even the thought. It made him want to get in the car and just go. The town could keep its two-drink limit, and everybody'd be happy. Nice and sober and happy.

"You wanna check out the house now?" Sam suggested.

Dean was grateful for the distraction. Sam knew better than anybody how to give a proper redirect, what with the future lawyer thing. Maybe one day Dean would be able to think of Lawrence without getting twitchy, but today wasn't that day. "We ought to look around before it opens tomorrow." He gave his brother a chagrinned smile. "Odds are they won't let us burn anything after the tour guide shows up."

Sam offered an answering smile, gentle like he knew Dean was trying to move past his tiny moment of repressed panic. "Probably not."

"You sure you're up to this?" Dean asked. The gash in Sam's head hadn't been pretty, and it had been a makeshift patch job at best.

"Me?" Sam shot back. "You're the one who can't figure out how to duck."

"Dave's fault," Dean grumbled. "Jackass jumped cover and got me beaned."

"More like canned," Sam pointed out.

Dean opened the door and headed toward the car. "When exactly did I become the straight man in this comedy act?"

Dean didn't have to look to know Sam was grinning. "Pretty sure it was when you fell in the coffin."

* * *

They moved silently through the dark toward the house. There was a high, rough-hewn wooden fence to one side that was part of the old stockade that had also been turned into a museum for the town. They crawled along it approaching the house from the back.

It was an old whitewashed clapboard home with a big porch that wrapped around the front and one side. They were coming in the back, however, because the house was on the main street through town. Granted, everything was on the main street through town.

"Stay here," Dean whispered. "I'll look for an alarm."

Sam glared, visible even through the deep shadows, but Dean ignored it. No doubt Sam had caught him leaning a little too obviously on the fence as they approached, but it was his job to take the lead, no matter how much his head wasn't cooperating.

Dean slipped closer to the building, studying it closely as he worked his way around, but there was nothing interesting to see and nothing to hear but the insects, so he worked his way back toward the rear door.

For just a second, it was a year earlier. Dean was alone. Sam was at Stanford and his dad was gone on a hunt of his own. Dean had nothing and nobody but himself.

He grasped Marigold, the shotgun a solid, comforting weight in his hand. She'd been his constant companion for years now, often his only companion while Sam was away at Stanford, and Dad ditched him whenever the notion took him. Dean guessed it would eventually be just the two of them again once Sam decided his hunting days were through.

Dean supposed Marigold would be gone, too, one day. Crap happened, especially in their world. Guns could wear out, just like people. He gripped the shotgun tighter. He should be grateful for the time he had with her. He _knew_ he was grateful for Sam while he had him. Sam was desperate to go, though. It was almost, _almost_ enough to make Dean wish they never caught up with the thing that had killed their mother, wrong as that seemed.

Dean let out a tiny chirp, similar to the insects, but plainly the signal that the coast was clear. He crept forward and then up the wooden stairs to the back of the house. Sam appeared a few seconds later and set to picking the lock on the door. He made quick work of it and they slipped inside.

Clicking on their flashlights, they scanned the room and found a grand total of not much. There was an old stove, but it didn't look like it was connected to anything and it was wrong for the room. The only other thing visible was a collection of pictures hanging on the walls.

Moving into the front room didn't yield any other likely candidates for something keeping Carry around. There were a few oversized pictures set up on easels, a few informational placards, a few magazines spread out on a table open to articles, but hardly any furniture.

Dean shone his flashlight at the picture frames, thinking maybe some of them held mementos or something she'd owned, but most were pictures of the bars she'd taken her hatchet to, the best known being the saloon in Dodge City. Dean couldn't really blame her for that one. Dodge City had been a dump of a cow town back in the day and it was still a dump. The only perk was that you got to say, "Let's get the heck outta Dodge," on the way out of town. Granted, he might be a little prejudiced. Dad had been working hurt and nearly got Dean killed in Dodge. Not one of his better memories.

"None of this stuff is original, not even that stove," Sam muttered, shining his flashlight into the other room at the front of the house. "This is all just borrowed junk and a few pictures."

"Well, then what's keepin' her here?" Dean hissed.

The overhead lights came on, blinding him. He blinked rapidly, backing up into a wall, to at least have some sort of cover, and waited for his vision to equalize. The blow, or more correctly blows, to his head weren't helping matters.

Finally, he blinked and could see the room properly. And then he blinked again.

A woman stood in the doorway, hatchet held high.

* * *

_More soon... Aiming for Monday._


	5. Chapter 5

**Glass Half Empty**

Summary: Sam and Dean run across a ghost who just won't let them have any fun... Season one - Post _Shadow_.

_Pardon the delay. Unexpected hiccup cause by real life. Darned annoying things, hiccups._

Chapter Five

* * *

"What do you think you're doing in here?" the frightened woman demanded, trying to sound like she was in charge despite her obvious trembling. She brandished the hatchet, attempting to give the impression she would happily chop them to pieces if they came any closer. She looked to be about fifty, maybe older if her somewhat leathery face was to be believed. It was hard to tell what kind of figure she had because she was wearing a nightgown and a fluffy terrycloth robe. Sam saw that she had come down a set of stairs and guessed she was a caretaker that they allowed to live on the second floor of the house.

Sam looked toward Dean. He was blinking and clearly trying to get his eyes to focus. Instinctively, he raised his shotgun and aimed it in the direction of the woman.

The woman's eyes widened in panic and the hatchet wavered. "Wh... wait... don't... don't hurt me! Take whatever you want!"

"Dean, don't!" Sam ordered, but he needn't have bothered. His brother had already started to lower the gun as soon as he heard the terrified woman speak. "We're sorry," Sam said quickly. "We didn't know anyone was here. We just wanted to see the house."

Dean snorted in disbelief, and Sam supposed rightfully so. It was pathetic as far as explanations went, although he didn't know that his brother could have come up with anything better.

"With guns?" she managed to squeak out.

"Yeah," Dean smirked, "why did we bring these, Sammy?"

"Dean." Sam shot him a quelling glance, not that it ever really had much effect.

"You work here?" Dean asked.

"What?" She frowned, clasping the edges of her robe together over her chest.

"Do you work here?" Dean said again slowly. "Are you a tour guide?"

The woman looked from one of them to the other and then back to Dean and his shotgun held down at his side. "Yes, but there's nothing here of value. I... My purse is upstairs. You can have it. There isn't much cash, but-"

Dean held up his hand and she stopped abruptly. "Keep your money, lady. Is there anything in this house that actually belonged to Carry Nation? That's all we need to know and we'll get out of your hair."

She shook her head in disbelief. "No... we... Carry left here to continue her work and never came back. Mr. Nation divorced her for abandonment. He didn't have anything of hers either."

"She just sort of took off and left the guy behind to hold the fort, huh?" Dean shot a look toward Sam, though he just as quickly looked away.

Sam didn't like that look at all. He knew Dean was still upset about his desire to leave again once the demon was killed, but what was Sam supposed to do? Lie and say he would stay? Sam hunted, but he wasn't a hunter. He never had been.

"Even if she'd been here," the tour guide continued nervously, "Carry had almost nothing when she died... the few things we have are donated pieces that would have been appropriate to the time period."

"How about the hatchet?" Dean asked, pointing with his shotgun.

"Replica," she managed, barely above a whisper.

Dean realized he'd scared her again unnecessarily. He frowned guiltily and Sam knew Dean's rules of conduct regarding women had kicked in. A chick he met in a bar was one thing, but a scared lady was another.

"There's nothing here that belonged to her, not even something small?" Dean asked more gently.

Horrified and scared out of her wits, the woman just shook her head. Dean sighed. "Great. We'll be going now. You... uhh... you can go back to bed. Have a nightcap. It'll settle you right down."

"You did not just say that," Sam groaned, already feeling the sudden drop in the room's temperature.

Dean just looked at him. "What?"

The caretaker, who'd allowed the hatchet she was still holding to fall to her side, now raised it. She looked from one of them to the other, her face suddenly twisting in fury. "You dare come into my _home_ and try to ply me with liquor?" she seethed.

"Ah, crap," Dean said, realizing what he'd done.

She flew at him, swinging the hatchet like she knew how to handle herself. Sam started forward, but with a sweep of her arm, Sam was thrown into the table holding all of the magazines. He toppled over it backwards, landing in an awkward heap.

"Drunkards! Fornicators! Have you no _shame_?"

Sam got to his hands and knees. He crawled out from behind the table to see Dean grappling with the woman and to Sam's surprise it looked like Dean was losing. He managed to push her back and she lashed out furiously with the hatchet catching Dean's arm, tearing through his jacket and the skin underneath.

"Son of a b-"

Her hand snaked out and she smacked him hard enough across the face that Dean rocked back. "I will not tolerate your foul mouth either!" She began to circle him and Dean moved to counter her, stepping right into Sam's line of vision. "Keep your filthy, swearing mouth shut!" she shrieked.

"Sammy? You ok?" Dean called.

"Yeah." Sam used the table to help himself stand. "You?"

"She's strong as an ox," Dean replied, not really an answer. "Can you get back to the door?"

The caretaker flew at Dean again and this time he met her halfway, pushing her toward the other room on the front of the house, away from the kitchen and the back door. Sam could tell he had to put all of his weight behind it to keep her back and he was fighting to keep her from swinging the hatchet again.

"Sam, get your ass to the door!" Dean ordered, the effort it was taking to hold her also evident in his voice.

Sam obeyed uneasily. He ran toward the back door, but instead of going through it, he stopped just inside. As he'd expected, Dean came barreling toward him only a few seconds later. Sam followed him and slammed the door shut. The door opened in, so the best he could do was hold onto the doorknob to keep the possessed woman from opening it right behind them.

Dean wrapped his hands over Sam's and it took both of them to hold the door closed as soon as she began pulling on it.

"Salt," Dean said through clenched teeth. "We gotta keep her inside the house."

"I've got the lighter fluid. You have the salt," Sam snapped. Dean removed his hands to get the salt out of his jacket pocket and Sam started to lose his grip as she pulled on the doorknob.

The pressure on the door abruptly ceased, but was followed closely by the hatchet crashing through the glass portion of the door. It caught Sam just above the wrist and sliced through the skin in a searing line of pain. Sam released the door and Dean turned him and pushed him down the steps.

Sam frantically looked in both directions, and finally nodded toward the stockade museum next door. The entrance was only a few yards away. "There!"

Dean ran ahead of him and with a grunt rammed the door with his shoulder. The blow broke the flimsy lock and the door flew open. Sam hurried in behind Dean and he quickly slammed the door shut again. Dean pointed toward a hutch to one side and together they pushed it in front of the door. That left them in complete darkness and Sam felt around near the door until he found a set of switches.

The lights came on to reveal nothing more than a large display of flyers for local historical places and a glass counter with a cash register on it. Behind the cash register was an eight foot tall partition made of pegboard. Beyond the cash register was a doorway that Sam guessed led into the museum proper. There weren't any windows, so at least they had a few moments respite from Carry and her hatchet.

"Dude," Dean said, breathing heavily and leaning against the hutch, his arms wrapped close to his chest, "I've managed one stinking beer and _no_ fornicating, and this freaking woman won't leave us alone! How fair is that?"

"You forgot your _kick me_ sign," Sam said, deadpan, jerking a thumb toward his own back.

"Right. Forgot. Universe against me." Dean plucked at the tear in his jacket and gave a quick peek at the damage to his arm beneath, then his eyes shot toward Sam's wrist that had practically been laid open by the hatchet. "Guessed I'm a black hole, sucked you into my crappy orbit. Sorry 'bout that."

Blood was seeping from the wound and spreading to cover his hand. Sam glanced around to see if he could find anything to stem the flow. Dean immediately recognized his problem. Before Sam could even say anything, Dean had already pulled his knife out of his pocket and was cutting off the bottom two or three inches of his own t-shirt. He tucked the knife away and grunted for Sam to hold out his arm. Sam obeyed and Dean quickly wrapped the wound with the strip of cloth and tied it off.

"That good?"

"It's fine. Thanks," Sam answered. It wasn't really. It hurt like a bitch and they both knew it.

Dean pursed his lips unhappily. "It should hold until we get back to the room anyway."

They both jumped at the sound of glass breaking and a hatchet thunking into the hutch blocking the door.

"Crap. Was really hoping she wouldn't follow us."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Cause your luck has been so great today."

"Yeah, yeah." Dean headed past the cash register and through the door leading into the museum. Sam followed and they both stopped dead. It was a large room packed with glass cases, stuffed full. A quick look told them that almost nothing in the cases was museum quality. It was all just old stuff that was too old to be useful, not in good enough shape to sell or be really interesting, but that made whoever had owned it feel too guilty to throw away. Tools, school photos, clothes, old spectacles, hat pins. These people hadn't been wealthy or been able to carry much from the East beyond what was actually needed for daily living. As Sam looked around, he decided this was the town's storeroom for their old, pseudo-valuable junk.

"Ya know," Dean muttered, almost to himself, "sometimes old crap is just old crap. Get yourself a Hefty bag and move on, people."

Sam nodded. They'd seen too many people bogged down by the past, holding onto trinkets that even the person who'd owned it would say to throw away. Their lives had been a never-ending lesson that sentimentality wasn't just counterproductive to the living, it was dangerous. Best case scenario, it just bogged people down and they couldn't move on, worst case scenario, someone _really_ couldn't move on and people got hurt.

Moving on. That's what it was all about. Sam could feel his wallet nearly burning a hole in his pocket. He had one picture of Jess, and right next to it was a metal button.

Sam had lost everything in the fire, Jess first and foremost, but beyond that all of their clothing, furniture, books, souvenirs from their trips, pictures… everything. The only reason he'd found the button was because he'd been desperate to find some tiny trace that Jess had been there, that she'd been part of his life. He didn't even know what shirt Jess had been wearing the day she died, but he guessed she'd thrown it over a chair in their bedroom like she normally did when she undressed for bed. Sam had found no sign of the shirt, only the button in a pile of ash near the remains of the chair.

The button was even more useless than all of the things in the cases in the museum. Just one little button. Nothing in the grand scheme of things, but he couldn't bear the thought of losing it, or throwing it out. He couldn't stand to think of someone else touching it or using it, or even looking at it without knowing who it had belonged to. Just the idea of it one day being abandoned to a place like this made him ill.

"You see anything?" Dean called. Sam looked up to see his brother combing through all of the cases.

"No."

Dean must have heard something in his voice because he stopped what he was doing and looked up. He met Sam's gaze and held it for just a second. "One thing at a time, man," Dean said evenly. "Find what's keeping her here or she's gonna chop us to pieces."

Sam turned toward the front door suddenly realizing there was no sound. She was no longer trying to hack her way in the front. "Dean, can you see out the back?"

"This place was meant to be a fort, dude. No windows," Dean shot back impatiently. Still, he headed toward the back to see if he could find another door. Sam ordered himself to focus and once again began searching through the thousands of items in the cases.

After several more minutes of searching, Dean came wandering back toward him. "I don't see anything. Maybe the fence is keeping her out. Or maybe she got bored and went back to keep an eye on the bar."

"We should be so lucky," Sam replied.

He and Dean kept looking, commenting occasionally on some item or another, Dean most notably impressed by a mastodon tusk some farmer had tilled up in his field. Finally, Sam stopped. He'd almost gone past it before his eyes had backtracked to the small brooch made of mother of pearl. "Dean? Is this what I think it is?"

Dean hurried over to look. "What?"

Sam pointed through the glass countertop using his uninjured hand. "It looks like a hatchet pin. Like one of the pins she sold to her groupies to fund her speaking tours. I can't read the tag on it."

Not given to subtlety, Dean grabbed his shotgun and brought the stock down on the glass top, shattering it. He snatched the pin out, shaking off the bits of glass clinging to it, then handed it to Sam.

"_Temperance Union membership pin worn by Carry A. Nation at her final speaking appearance_." Sam looked up at Dean. "Dean, she collapsed at that speech and died not long after that."

"Great. Some salt, some lighter fluid and it's Miller Time."

The back door crashed open and several seconds later the tour guide from Carry's house came around the corner, hatchet still in hand.

"Dude, just tell me to keep my mouth shut from now on, ok?"

"Ok," Sam answered. "Dean, keep your mouth shut from now on."

"Thanks, Sam," Dean said sarcastically. "You're a real lifesaver."

The woman let out a howl of fury. She brought her hatchet down on the nearest case, and _every_ display case in the entire museum exploded in a shower of glass. Dean cried out and tried to cover his face while Sam did the same. He stumbled back into the shelf behind him and felt something large crash into his head.

Sam heard Dean calling his name, but it was too late. He was headed for the floor and nothing was going to stop him. As his vision faded, he saw two things. The first was Carry's hatchet pin, only a few inches away where he'd dropped it. The second was that freaking mastodon tusk Dean had said was the coolest thing ever. It had fallen from its shelf and knocked him out.

Dean didn't have any backup now thanks to that stupid tusk. Sam wondered how awesome his brother thought it was now.

* * *

_The last chapter soon… And in case you were wondering, the Stockade Museum in Medicine Lodge is indeed the proud owner of a mastodon tusk a local farmer tilled up in his field. I believe I said something terribly intelligent like, "Cool. A mastodon tusk," when I saw it._


	6. Chapter 6

**Glass Half Empty**

Summary: Sam and Dean run across a ghost who just won't let them have any fun... Season one - Post _Shadow_.

_It's been a pleasure and thank you for the kind reviews. Hope y'all enjoyed the story. _

Chapter Six

* * *

"Sam!" Dean turned just in time to see his brother land on the ground, apparently taken out by the mastodon tusk. He supposed, if you were going to get knocked out, it should at least be by something that awesome.

Dean started to kneel at his brother's side, but heard the crunch of glass behind him and quickly swiveled to face the more pressing danger. He couldn't see out of one eye, and swiped a hand across it to clear his vision. A piece of glass had apparently opened a gash in his scalp and it had decided to pour blood down that side of his face.

The possessed woman was still on the other side of the large room weaving her way through the display cases. Dean looked down and frantically began searching amongst the glass for the little hatchet pin Sam had found.

"This is a dry town now," Carry called. "I've seen to that. You will have to go elsewhere to find your filthy liquor, although I will see to that, too, soon enough."

Dean groaned, still searching for the pin. What he wouldn't do for some filthy liquor right now. That was part of what was pissing him off, though. He liked a beer now and then, but he had rules about any serious drinking. Their lives were too dangerous. The possibility of being caught unawares, of being taken out just because he wasn't on the ball was too high. Their dad had always had a barely-controlled problem, and when he'd fallen off the wagon, Dean was the one who'd had to take up the slack. Since the fire, Sam had had a couple of bouts of fall-down-drunk time. Even then, Dean had been careful. One of them had to be on point.

"Lady," Dean said loudly, "it's no wonder your first husband was a drunk. You're enough to send any man straight to the nearest bar."

The woman let out an ear-piercing screech and Dean turned in time to see some sort of obsolete farm tool that he couldn't even name flying at his head. It crashed into the shelf behind him and fell to the floor. "Good call, Dean. Piss off a woman in a room full of sharp objects."

"He was a useless man," she screamed. "He died and left me with nothing just because he couldn't get his head out of a bottle!"

Despite the odds of his being skewered by agricultural equipment, Dean had to stall her until he could find the brooch hiding in all the glass on the floor. "Lady, you were stone-sober, but that didn't stop you from leaving your second husband in the lurch," he shot back. "_You_ abandoned _him_."

Dean expected another tool to fly at him, but the woman's eyes narrowed. "The cause was more important. I found my calling and had to go. David had to be left behind for it to happen."

Where had Dean heard that kind of logic before? Sam and Dad had done a whole lot of yelling, years' worth, and Dean certainly hadn't been left out of it or come out unscathed. Sam had found his calling. Education, a job, safety, normal. Hunting and the people who made it their life had to be left behind. Sam had abandoned him for the call of the sweet life.

"Don't pretend you don't understand," Carry snapped.

"Oh, I get it all right," he nearly snarled.

"How many times have you done the same thing?"

"Me?" Dean asked, drawn up short. Sam, yeah, but what was she talking about?

"How many women have you left behind for your cause? How many friends?" she demanded. "How many people you care about have you abandoned because there is important work that has to be done?"

Faces, dozens of them, flashed before his eyes. Cassie, first, but then others, some he'd liked, some that he'd more than liked, that it could have turned into more, not that he'd ever know because he'd left. How many almost-friends in how many places had he given a handshake and then driven off, never to look back?

Dean could feel his temper getting the better of him. He wasn't trying to keep people from getting liquored up. He was keeping them from getting killed. It was _important_. "You bossed your husband around until he divorced you from across the country," he shouted.

"You bossed your brother around until he moved across the country."

Crap. Dean _hated_ arguing with smart ghosts. He especially hated it when they were right. He knew how much blame fell on his shoulders for Sam taking off. His brother hadn't left him because they were both under Dad's thumb. He'd ditched Dean because when it came down to it, Dean did what their father told him to do. The job had to be done. His father was a good man, a brave man, and he loved him. Dean was willing to make sacrifices to make sure his father had the backup he needed. Dean had his calling and he'd parted ways with Sam to follow it.

Dean swiped a hand across his eyes again to clear the still oozing blood from his vision. He looked down at his unconscious brother. Maybe he and Sam weren't so different after all. There was a reason they hadn't talked for years while Sam was at Stanford. They'd both been willing to abandon the other to do what they thought was necessary.

Dean didn't know if that was still true. The thought of leaving Sam… Or of Sam leaving…

Dean saw the hatchet pin. It was peeking out from beneath the shelf next to the tusk. He dragged it out using his foot and pulled the small canister of salt from his pocket. He popped the top off and unceremoniously dumped it all over the pin.

Carry started making her way toward him again. The ghost knew something was up and Dean had to duck as a shelf full of Mason jars flew toward him, crashing into the wall behind him. A display of hatpins was next, flying at him like daggers, just missing him by inches. He tried to shield Sam as best he could while more random object flew at him. A harmonica smacked him in the nose and he had to blink away the stars as he knelt and fumbled in his brother's pockets to find the tin of lighter fluid he'd been carrying. Dean thumbed off the stopper and shot a stream out, quickly dousing the salt and pin. Moments later the little pile was burning, and Dean turned warily in the ghost's direction.

Carry was standing in the middle of the room, looking around her, a ferocious frown on her brow. "What have you done?" she demanded.

Dean couldn't help a smirk. "Lady, Prohibition's just been repealed." He felt his ears pop, like there had been a change in air pressure, and the possessed woman fell to the floor unconscious.

Dean slumped back against the nearest display case, all of his aches and pains suddenly returning with a vengeance. He sighed. "I need a drink."

* * *

Dean broke into a doctor's office on the way back to the motel. Sam's wrist was a mess and there was no way he could take care of it without proper supplies. Unfortunately, he'd had to take care of stitching his own head back together first. He couldn't patch Sam up if he was still bleeding everywhere and couldn't see out of one eye.

Sam sat on his bed, patiently waiting as Dean finished bandaging his wrist. Dean moved on to disinfecting his billions of nicks and cuts and Sam sighed but allowed it. He was still a little woozy, and they both knew he probably couldn't manage the job.

"How's the head?" Dean asked.

"How's yours?"

"I got hit by a harmonica."

Sam scowled. "I got hit by a tusk."

Dean paused and then chuckled. "Ok, I'll give you that one. You win."

"It's not funny," Sam said petulantly.

"How is that not funny? Funny and _awesome_."

"S'not awesome," Sam muttered. He dropped his head and Dean immediately grunted in disapproval. Sam dutifully turned his face back up and allowed Dean to continue to disinfect the cuts. The claw marks from the daeva were still angry and red, and Dean was careful to go over them as well. He would see to his own after Sam had been taken care of. He knew he'd torn a few stitches out during the standoff in the house. He'd had to work too hard to keep the possessed woman back. He was getting really tired of re-doing those. If his dad hadn't ditched him again, he would've let him redo them. His dad's stitching had always been better than Dean's.

Dean clenched his teeth angrily and Sam hissed as Dean pressed a little too hard at one of the cuts. "Sorry," he quickly said, and waited for Sam's murmur of forgiveness.

Too dangerous. Their dad said it was _too dangerous_. Sam had nearly had his hand hacked off, they both had concussions caused by everything from a beer mug to a tusk, and they were both bleeding enough that it looked like a serial killer had used their room to dismember a body, their _second_ room, since the first looked like an ax murderer had gotten loose in it.

"Dean?" The uncertainty in his brother's voice brought Dean quickly back into focus.

"What?"

"I don't care if it is dangerous. I don't think we should've let dad leave."

Apparently, working on the injuries from the daevas had brought Sam to the same line of thought. Dean let his hands fall away from Sam and sat back on the other bed. He let out a slow breath. "Doesn't matter now, Sammy. He's gone and we won't find him until he wants to be found."

"That's not the point," Sam shot back.

Dean frowned, nonplussed by his brother's tone. "Then what is the point?"

"I want you to agree that we shouldn't have let him go."

"I doesn't _matter_," Dean said again. "It's a moot point." Their father had to know more than they did. He _had_ to, or he wouldn't have just ditched them. _Again_.

Sam stood up angrily and started to move away, but he began to sway and Dean quickly stood to steady him. Sam shook his hand away impatiently. "You never listen," Sam bit out.

"You think I don't listen?" Dean said a little too loudly. "Why do you think I let Dad go?"

Sam turned at that, once again uncertain. "What?"

"Dude, you'd just told me I was gonna have to let you go, because it was...," Dean waved his hand vaguely, "what you wanted... or good for you or whatever." Sam's eyes narrowed at that, so Dean quickly continued. "That's why I let him go. It's because I listened to you, man. I trusted him to know what he was talking about."

Sam pursed his lips, the wheels visibly turning. He wasn't happy, but he couldn't really argue with Dean for listening to him.

"I always listen." Dean felt a smirk coming on at Sam's skeptical expression. "I _do_. I listen. Sometimes, I just think you're full of crap."

Sam snorted and shook his head. It apparently left him lightheaded and he sat down heavily on the bed. Dean sat down on his own more gingerly, protecting his side as well as all his other aches and bruises from more jostling.

"I think Dad was full of crap," Sam said quietly.

Dean met his eyes. "Maybe."

His acquiescence seemed to pacify Sam and he nodded. "We never did get you that drink."

"Sad, but true."

Sam frowned. "We've been banned from the bar and I'm pretty sure they're never gonna let us in the Walgreen's again."

Dean laughed at that and stood up, already digging in his pockets. "You got any change?"

Sam pulled a few coins out with his good hand and passed them over. "Where you going?"

"Coke machine." Dean shrugged. "Kinda off the booze tonight anyway. Go figure."

Sam huffed. "Probably a good idea anyway, with the concussion and all."

"Probably." Dean grinned and pulled the door open. "Dude, a tusk. That's _awesome_."

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed a little lighthearted season one romp. Now, honest to goodness, I'm gonna go work on the sequel to _Loose the Hounds_. Really. Unless something else comes up._


End file.
